


Ice Blink

by blasted_heath



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ghosts?, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 17:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18078095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted_heath/pseuds/blasted_heath
Summary: A very sad extra scene for episode 9, "The C, The C, The Open C."





	Ice Blink

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry in advance! This was [franklins-leg](https://franklins-leg.tumblr.com/)'s idea, and I just translated it into story form. 
> 
> This was my first attempt at writing in the present tense, so please bear with me!

_Francis._

James’s voice is a bare whisper, so low he may not have heard it at all. But the sound raises gooseflesh where the word has graced over his neck, chased by a hand that slides up from his shoulder to tangle in his hair.

_Don’t brood so._

Francis hums, leans back in his chair. Feels the crooked smile on James’s lips as they brush over his cheek. 

He opens his eyes, but does not turn about. In a small mirror that sits on the table before him, he sees the hand draped over his shoulder, and the fall of James’s hair as it tumbles down from where the man has laid his head atop his own. It smells of sweat and smoke, but Francis turns his head, and kisses his hair nonetheless. 

He takes James’s hand into his own, weaving his fingers through the valleys of his knuckles, seeing in the mirror’s reflection the web of raw patches that mar his skin. He’ll help him to bind his hands later, he thinks instinctively, before they walk on. James, he knows, will ever be too proud to acknowledge it himself.

James will always be a marvel to him, to have been so persistent, so determined in the face of it all. The marks on his hands are but a poor representation of all the other ways in which his body has betrayed him, of course. And yet he thus far has been their anchor, and Francis’s own. Uncomplaining, unbent and resolute, thinking only of the men, and often at his own expense. His harsh groan as he lays down at night is the only sign he has ever given of being in pain, and he has always claimed that he is simply sore of walking. That he would be right again in the morning, after a night wrapped up in the warmth of Francis’s arms. He has seen worse, he says, although it’s an unconvincing exaggeration. He has been through every manner of hardship already in his short life, and yet he has always made it out, smiling in the end. 

_Hm, James_ , is all he responds, closing his eyes again and ducking his head to kiss the hand he holds. When he looks up to catch James’s eye in the mirror, the man is smiling. Such a thing is a rare sight these days, and all the more beautiful for its scarcity. James’s eyes crease at the corners and flutter shut, as he turns to press his forehead against Francis’s hair, and raises his hands to lay along the sides of his face. Long fingers wrap around his jaw, exploring the smooth contours that Francis has been working to reveal. 

_You’ve done a fine job_ , James whispers. _You’ll put Jopson to shame. Though I dare say you have missed something right about_ —he contemplates the matter with a finger tracing downwards— _here_. His thumb presses against a familiar point below his ear, causing Francis to gasp in surprise. James knows his eccentricities, and his hand is freezing.

 _Good God, James_ , he laughs, and pulls both of James’s hands down to rest between the warmth of his jumper and wool waistcoat. James’s arms tighten around his shoulders, and his fingers splay out across his chest. Francis takes a gentle hold of both his wrists, smiling as he traces the patterns at the cuffs of his jumper. The white one he used to wear is long gone, destroyed by the friction of a sledge harness worn day after day, and he wears a blue one now. Francis knows it fondly; he had worn it himself for months, after James had given it to him one night on _Erebus_. It’s a rare display of intimacy here, to see it on James once again. He leans his head back against James’s slight but solid form, and all he can see in the mirror is their hands, entwined over his heart. 

It’s a quiet day in camp. They are few, now, fewer than Francis had ever imagined, before the parties split. And there is no sound from James as he stands behind him—only the snap of canvas lazily beating in the wind, and a few cautious footsteps on the shale outside. Their feet fall nearly silent here in the wide tundra, as fleeting an indication of their presence as the material reminders they’ve left scattered behind them. He turns his head into the curve of James’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and damp wool, and something snaps inside him. One of his hands begins to travel up and down James’s arm, grasping desperately at his elbow, and a choked sound escapes his throat, unbidden. 

_I’m sorry_ , James says somewhere behind his head, voice suddenly grating as the heat begins to rise behind Francis’s eyes. _I couldn’t—_

 _I know, James. I know._ His throat is tight and his voice muffled by wool, and he shakes his head in attempt to maintain a steady tone. Knowing is of very little comfort, in the end. 

_You did all that you could. I would wish for no one else._ His hand pulls away from Francis’s chest to stroke his hair instead, cradling his head against him. _This is not a burden for you to bear._

_I am the only one to bear it, now,_ Francis says, and his voice breaks at last. 

_Oh, Francis, don’t._ Suddenly James’s arms are around him again, hands smoothing along his shoulders and down his back as he shivers once, then twice, fighting back a sob that comes out as a pitiful moan.

_You know how you have to go on, now. The men need you. As I have needed you._

_I needed_ you, _James_ , he chokes out, reaching up to take hold of the shoulder he is leaning against. His fingers dig deep, as if his grip could preserve his presence for ever, but James doesn’t flinch. _Why did you--why did you ask--?_

 _Oh, Francis_ , James says again, in a whisper that shudders with the breath it is drawn on. _It was only as I wished. As it must have been._

_James, I—_

_Thank you,_ James says, with characteristic finality, and presses a kiss to his bowed forehead. _Thank you._

James’s voice is smiling as he pulls away, and Francis gasps. _No_ , he pleads. _Don’t—not yet—_

 _Shh._ James is almost laughing as he comes behind him again and lays his hands on his shoulders. _Be easy, now. You can see me?_

Francis almost turns around before James’s quiet laugh stops him. _You know what I mean._

James in the mirror is as Francis will always remember him, dark hair gone straight and slightly unmanageable, brown eyes glinting gold in the sunlight, the lines by his eyes deepening as he flashes his crooked smile. He leans over Francis’s shoulder to press his cheek against his own, and meets Francis’s eyes in the glass. 

_Yes_ , Francis says, stumbling on the sound, but he smiles, slightly, himself. 

_Good_ , James replies, and reaches around with one hand to brush the tears from his eyes. He stands straight again, and drags his fingers along Francis’s shoulders as he steps sideways. 

In the narrow frame of the mirror, Francis watches as James comes around, and leans forward, almost kneeling before him. He raises a trembling hand to rest against James’s hair, as James takes his face in both of his own, and slowly, gently, presses their lips together.


End file.
